5 Days to Die
by PurplePlover
Summary: Due to freak circumstances, Zoey finds herself in the company of a Hunter with five days to return to her motley group of survivors. But first she has to grant the final wish of a Hunter who still retains his humanity - to die. ZoeyHunter
1. Prologue

I've started a new story less than a month after my first story. Not the brightest of ideas, I know. Truth be told, a plot bunny hopped up my nose into my brain and I got the urge to write a well... ZoeyxHunter fic (which is also partially an AU, since I'm taking artistic liberties such as extending the 2 weeks the survivors are supposed to survive before The Sacrifice). I suppose you could call it a ZoeyxOC fic because the Hunter is not on the top of Valve's list for character development, and I'm well... giving him a character. It's a warning for all who dislike such a pairing - ye who tread further, go with caution. I don't know how many people this fanfic may offend, but flames will be used to heat my chilly home. :) Another note: updates will be sporadic because although it is my last year of high school and I have finally completed college apps, I find myself up to my neck with work.

P.S. - I decided to wrestle with the present tense with this fanfiction. Please forgive my horrendous grammatical errors. In fact, I'd probably have horrendous grammatical errors no matter how I wrote the story. And also while you're at it, would you forgive my terrible characterization?

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Left 4 Dead series. Yup.

**5 Days to Die: Prologue**

It's a typical day in Fairfield; as typical as a day in the zombie apocalypse can be. She unloads a round of bullets into another zombie's face and watches it crumple in a bloody heap.

"You would think by now that Francis would learn by now to not shoot the cars." She mutters irately under her breath. The man in question throws his hands up defensively.

"Was aimin' for the vampire. So I missed, my mistake."

Zoey frowns at him. She doesn't enjoy starting her day by fighting the horde. The other two survivors have the same thought, but after an exchange of sharp words, they're moving again.

"Reloading!" Louis yells, and she moves in to cover him like clockwork. By now they've all gotten the patterns down; life or death situations always did bring people together.

They're covering a lot of ground today, she notices, yet all she cares about is finding the next safe house. She's tired and even though she knows Francis is like family to her, right now she's still angry at him and wants nothing more to do with his inappropriate attitude.

She supposes she's lying to herself. It isn't Francis that's troubling her - well, not entirely, and she's used to him being an idiot by this point - it's a dream she keeps having.

...More like a recurring nightmare. It didn't have zombies, surprisingly; she faced enough of those on a daily basis (five and a half days).

It starts out in college; she's talking about a horror film animatedly with a fellow student and couldn't feel happier about being there, when suddenly, as if they were in a movie themselves, a film reel starts spinning and the scene turns to a peaceful family dinner. Correction: a war zone. Her mom and dad are at each others' throats, quiet yet deadly in their discussion about Zoey's decision to drop out of college. She's picking at her peas - she hates the nasty green vegetables almost as much as the tension at the table.

"Guys, it's my decision. Want to listen to me?" She tries to cut in. In the dim light of the dining room, she feels as if she's grown into a plant because nobody answers. That's when all hell breaks loose.

"Fatty at the rear!" Bill calls out and she snaps out of her increasingly depressing reverie. A Boomer had somehow snuck up behind them, though how when the rotund, puss filled zombie was more conspicuous than a survivor in the middle of Fairfield, Zoey couldn't answer. It's too close to shoot which means too close for comfort. She switches to her pistol, kicks the Boomer back with a grunt of exertion (the damn things were _fat_), and plans to pop the sucker like a balloon... when it barfs on her.

"Ugh!" She shoots it then and it explodes, but she can't help but yelp in disgust as her pink track jacket is drenched in bile. What's worse is knowing what she'll attract wearing _perfume de Boomer_. "We may want to find cover." She suggests as she attempts to shake off the liquid, shuddering as globs drip down her cheek. Louis looks her way wryly, with an expression saying: "You think?" He gestures at Francis, who is beginning to develop the crazy sort of grin on his face that tells her he'd like nothing more than to stay here and punch some zombies. She shoves Francis lightly and follows Bill, who's already looking for a barricade to make fighting off another horde easier. There are shrill cries in the distance that would set her hair on end if it wasn't matted down with vomit.

They find a pile of cars that must have crashed when the shit hit the fan - or rather, the Green Flu epidemic. She doubts the Infected were good drivers. The four of them prepare behind the mass of twisted metal, waiting for the zombies to crawl over or run through the narrow opening so they could shoot them. Their backs are against a tall gray building with boarded up windows, while they are surrounded by cars, leaving only one way for the Infected to come.

"It's like an old fashioned shooting gallery." Francis nods appreciatively. "Now if only we had some music. And booze."

"If only you had a brain." Louis shakes his head.

"Shut your yaks and shoot." Bill cuts in as the first sickly, Infected face pops up over the pile of cars. Zoey trades her shotgun for a hunting rifle and takes aim. At the pull of the trigger, the Common Infected's head explodes. Adrenaline filled minutes and a pipe bomb later, the crowd thins and blood literally paints the ground like a macabre Pollock.

"I think it's clear." Zoey wipes her forehead of sweat and Infected blood, adrenaline flowing out of her like the blood out of the Infected corpses littering the area. "I'm low on ammo; we're going to have to find some more. Preferably in a safe room." She emphasizes, tired. The sun's in the middle of the sky and they've been killing zombies till noon.

"Whew! You smell like shit. Let's hope that safe room has a bathroom." Francis waves a hand in front of his nose, reminding her that she could really use a bath. Although she agrees, Francis has broken an unwritten rule of women and she glares at him, asking Louis politely if she can have her shotgun back for just a moment...

They find the safe house two hours later. It's the most beautiful thing Zoey has seen all day and she instantly cheers up, even cracking a happy smile. She's running ahead, the others fall behind but she doesn't care as she rounds the corner, safe house less than fifty feet away.

She smells the Smoker before she sees the tongue. It wraps itself around her neck, like a boa constrictor, tightening until she's having trouble breathing. She's on her back being pulled into an alley, thrashing about and trying to call out for someone to shoot the damn tongue. She almost laughs and cries at the same time, except it's hard when you're being asphyxiated. This can't be the way she's going to die, halfway between a safe house and her friends after surviving five and a half days in the zombie apocalypse, choked by a freakishly long tongue. She was going to be licked to death.

Then suddenly the pressure lifts and she's simply lying there, staring at the overcast sky. She breathes deeply, coughs, then breathes some more, stunned. Turning around she spots the Smoker hanging off a fire escape, dead. Deader than zombie dead, with his tongue and head cut off, a typical dark colored smoke escaping the body. It isn't a weird sight - not as weird as the company she finds herself in.

There's a Hunter perched beside the body, far enough to avoid the smoke. She almost mistakes him for a gargoyle because he doesn't seem to be moving - not even breathing (though she isn't sure if zombies need to breath). His hood is over his face, so she doesn't know how she knows he's staring at her, except that most of the zombies stare at her because they think she's their next meal.

And now she just might be lunch if she doesn't get up before the Hunter decides to pounce. Experience tells her that being alone with these Special Infected leads to lots of pain. She struggles to sit and pulls the hunting rifle from the strap on her back. The Hunter remains as still as a statue. Hesitation. She wonders if the Hunter is waiting for something as she shakily takes aim through her scope - and then he's gone, leaping off the side of the building onto a roof and disappearing.

"You okay there? What are you doing taking a break in an alleyway?" Louis asks as the three catch up. She shrugs and glances where the Hunter had been, in a daze. Bill helps her to her feet and she thanks him quietly.

"Don't go running ahead. We have to stick together out here." He practically scolds her as if she were an eight-year-old.

"Sorry." She sighs and forgets about the strange Hunter as soon as they reach the safe room. Early evening begins as they double check the red door's bolts and locks before settling down. There's a couch and a loveseat inside but no bathroom, and she claims the couch quickly with faint disappointment. Although tired, she finds she doesn't want to sleep and busies herself with cleaning her guns.

That's when Francis discovers an abandoned pile of Playboy and other more questionable men's magazines. "Shit. Who the hell leaves behind a treasure like this?" He whistles and flips through a tattered copy with undivided attention. Louis slowly inches beside the biker, inconspicuously peering into the box full of magazines of tantalizing and scantily dressed women. Even Bill takes a peek over Francis's shoulder.

Zoey rolls her eyes. Men. An ammunition magazine would have been a much better find. But she hides a smile and turns to their bag of supplies. There's no such thing as privacy while trying to survive the zombie apocalypse, let alone in a safe room less than ten feet long, but she might as well try and give them their male bonding time. Not the best dinner, but a few granola bars quiet her growling stomach. She washes it down with a bottle of water and notes with some dread that they need to take a trip to a grocery store soon.

She nods off sometime later when Francis is adamantly discussing a plan to bring the mags with them. Bill calls him an idiot before sleep overtakes her.

_"Whatever happens, you'll always be my little girl." Her dad ruffles her hair like he did when she was an actual little girl._

_"Dad, I'm going to college. I haven't killed anyone."_

_"Damn right you're going to college; on a scholarship too." Wade nods with pride. "Now just remember our family's three Holy Creeds when you're there. One: you gotta shoot zombies in the head, two: keep in touch with your parents, and three: boys need the seal of approval before any dates."_

_She laughs. "Okay, I understand. But please, no mistaking any possible suitors for zombies."_

_"Can't make any promises." Her dad grins back. "You'll always be my little girl... who's one hell of a shot."_

_It's half a year later. She's in her dining room and her mother's dead on the floor, a bullet through the head. Her dad is leaning against the wall, blood running down his face from long, jagged cuts. He smiles, as if it's Zoey's first day in grade school and he's encouraging her to go make friends._

_"I love you, dad." She chokes and pulls the trigger._

She jerks awake, notices the walls of the safe room, covered in the graffiti of past occupants, and realizes she's been dreaming. "Damn it." Whispering, she lets her head flop back on the couch. What a bad time for her to have nightmares. Sleep had been her escape, but now she couldn't even doze off without the dread of dreaming. She hopes they make it out of the city soon; maybe a change of scenery would calm her nerves.

It's early morning - dim light is seeping through the bars of the door. She closes her eyes and allows her body to relax, listening to the slow breathing of the other three survivors as she waits. Bill gets up soon after, already making sure his gun is reloaded and ammo resupplied and all the necessary preparations are done because he sure as hell isn't going to trust Francis to do it.

Zoey pretends to sleep until Bill kicks the two others awake. They're all up and outside after some grumbling. She's feeling better after a night's rest, albeit a troubled one, and knows nothing they encounter today can be as bad as fighting two hordes. Reassuring herself was a habit she formed to keep from becoming a pessimist like Francis, but the anxiety weighs in the pit of her stomach as she follows the three men to the road, killing any Common Infected they meet.

The anxiety transforms into alarm as a loud and familiar roar splits the silence like thunder. "Fucking damn it." Francis groans, voicing her thoughts. "I _hate_ Tanks."

"Yeah, yeah." Bill mutters, raising his submachine gun cautiously. "Hey Louis, we have any Molotovs?"

"A few." The former Junior Systems Analyst searched through his pack. "Would have more if Francis here hadn't insisted on bringing the magazines." The biker shrugs dismissively and reaches for a Molotov.

"Only the good ones. Get ready to set shit on fire."

Zoey would be amazed at Francis' bravado if she weren't so focused on the impending death match with a zombie on 'roids.

The Tank roars again, the sound close enough to send vibrations through her skin. She swallows and clutches her rifle tightly. A car is tossed to the side as the Tank barrels through the street. They're all shooting at it as soon as the thing appears within their sight, but the thing doesn't even react to a bullet between the eyes. She wonders briefly if the Tank can even feels pain, since it doesn't slow down in its pace as a Molotov sets it alight. In fact, it only becomes more enraged, rushing even faster towards them.

They scatter as the Tank charges past them, unable to stop its momentum. She takes the chance to unload some more shots into the large Infected, backing away as she does so. The situation looked to be under control, any second now the Tank should drop dead - Tanks never lived long when on fire.

- That's when the second Tank arrives. No one expects it, especially not her. She screams as it nears, forgoing all thoughts of fighting and began running the hell away as Tank number two jumps out of nowhere and charges straight at her. The others are shouting too, but the sound of blood pounding in her ears drowns out any hope of deciphering their words. She doesn't want to lead the second Tank towards the others who still have their hands full with the first one, and in a moment of either incredible stupidity or noble sacrifice - though the word _idiot_ is on repeat in her head - she runs in the opposite direction of the three men.

_Well, this is it_. She thinks, the scene almost surreal. Time slows, she thinks that it's a shame she won't be able to eat a nice meal before she dies.

With an enormous arm, bulging grotesquely with throbbing muscles, the Tank swings downward, intent on crushing her into paste.

Everything goes black.


	2. Day 1 Part I

I have an excuse for why this chapter is so bad! I wrote it once... and lost it. :( Had to write the whole thing over again and couldn't rest easy till I did. The agony.

This is numero uno in the days, but it's part one because I've decided to split any chapters that grow too long. I know no one enjoys reading long chapters and if it's over 4k words it becomes a tl;dr sort of thing. This update is a quickie because I really wanted to write some more. Don't count on it happening too often!

**Day 1 **

**(Part I**)

"It's for research mom. I get more information from movies than from a professor lecturing to a hundred students. What? No I'm here on a _scholarship_. Look, I'll talk to you about this later. Love you mom." She hangs up, presses play on the remote control, and lets the suspenseful music wash over her feelings of guilt and mild exasperation.

Thank god for The Ring.

She curls up on the slightly lumpy dormitory mattress and watches as Rachel picks up the phone to hear a girl's voice whispering the famous line: "Seven days". That's when she breaks into a fit of giggles. It always seemed excessive to her to wait seven days to kill someone, since it would be easier and more productive to get a murder over with, though it did create the tension she loves so much in horror movies. It's excitement she'll never experience in the real world – she's glad, of course, that no one will call her in the middle of the night telling her she has seven days to live (although there was that one time on Halloween, when a friend was in a particularly good mood...).

Zoey finishes the movie and skips all her morning classes.

Around noon she microwaves lunch because the college cafeteria was always lacking. At the minute mark the chicken begins to smell – and not as in mom's delicious homemade food – an aroma of rotten eggs and... chemicals permeated from the microwave. Wrinkling her nose, she reaches for the empty box the lunch came in, trying to find the expiration date.

She touches something soft and wet.

It's a hand. Her eyes grow into circles, shocked and utterly disgusted. That's when she realizes she's lying on a pile of bodies.

"Shit!" She hisses and hastily slips off of the corpses, landing on her rear. Along with her startled breaths are the distant sounds of gunshots and roaring. She abruptly recalls being attacked by a Tank and sees an overpass above. Apparently she had stumbled off, and as disturbing as it was to wake up on top of dead people after plummeting off an overpass, the clumsiness had saved her life. The second Tank had decided three people were worth more than one skinny girl.

She stands and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting profanities out of frustration and pain. Cushioned landing or not, falling fifty feet hurts. Nothing appears to have broken, but her left ankle throbs as she limps forward. Panic wells up in her chest as she becomes aware of the fact that she can't find a way back up, no stairs or ladders in sight. There are no Infected in to be seen either - live ones, anyways, so she decides somewhat anxiously that she'll simply have to follow the overpass until she can find a way to regroup with the others. The three were smart enough to put two and two together and realize that she had fallen but, for the time being, was alive and well. She begins to walk but glances back up at the broken metal railing, hesitant.

On second thought, she would write a short note. She can't help but see the irony of writing a message in blood to tell the world that she's alive and smiles as she finishes her bloody work.

_"Alive. Regroup safe room. - Zoey"_

"All right. It's easy. All I have to do is get to the safe room." She flinches at the noise. She was far enough that there were no more shrieks, no gunshots, and no sound whatsoever – and that made her voice seem painfully loud.

A soda can clatters to the cement floor and rolls to her grimy sneakers. Her knuckles are white from the vice like grip on the hunting rifle and she freezes in place, waiting for whatever was hiding to make itself known. There's no Common Infected around, which means it's more than likely a Special Infected is waiting for an ambush. They were smarter – predators hunting their prey.

A shrill cry sends a shiver down her spine. "Hunter!" She hisses quietly, more out of habit than usefulness. The call echoed eerily off of the walls of the underpass, and she has difficulty pinpointing the direction of the screeching. Another cry sends her on edge, but it was close enough for her to tell that it had come from –

"Behind!" She shouts and whips around. A single shot cracks through the silence before she's pinned down, rifle spinning ten feet away. The Hunter's so close that she can see his bloody lips, his sharp claws closed around her arms. "Get. Off. Me!" She's struggling, trying to kick him where it hurts but can't get enough room to do damage. No way in hell was she dying without a fight.

It takes five minutes before she realizes her intestines are still inside and she's fully intact. She stares up at the Hunter, wholly confused as to why she's still alive. She stops moving; as much as she would like to continue her one-sided fight, her ankle's throbbing painfully and she's completely out of breath.

Satisfied, the Hunter backs away – and to her surprise, stands up. Hunters always gave her the impression of preferring to be on all fours, like a wild predator. He's even slouching like the skaters she used to see on the boardwalk near her college, appearing normal enough to take her aback. When he reaches out an open hand she can't help but openly gape. They stay motionless until she can raise her jaw and gingerly accept the hand, minding the claws. He pulls her up with little difficulty.

"Thanks… I think." She's unsure whether she should be grateful or suspicious, because this could all be a convoluted plan of the Infected's to earn her trust and then eat her. In fact, she's not even sure if the Hunter understood a single word she was saying – he was a zombie for heaven's sake.

And then he did something that surprises her more than standing on two legs or showing human civility ever could have.

He spoke.

"Please… I have a request. Will you… listen to it?" It was scratchy and low like it hadn't been used in quite a while, and it made her throat hurt simply listening, but it was definitely a voice. She could only nod dumbly as the Hunter seems to slump even more, as if relieved, and gestures for her to follow. She picks up her rifle and trails after the Infected.

It was one of the stupidest moves she's ever made, but the flood of questions is brimming in her head and she can only follow. _Curiosity killed the cat…_

They slowly head in the direction she had been going before. It takes some time, but they eventually reach a rundown and abandoned hotel, Common Infected milling calmly in the front. The building looks halfway between a stylish luxury and a traveling businessman's hotel and has obviously seen better, more affluent days. Now most of the windows were broken or boarded up, and the glass double doors were shattered.

She swallows, dreading the answer to her unspoken question. "Are we going in there?"

The Hunter nods, and before she can protest, slings her on his back and jumps. She's holding on for dear life as they bound off of a wall and fly through the air almost gracefully, and land in a room.

"Somebody was prepared." She whistles as soon as she recovers from her wild ride. The exits are barricaded with wood and metal. It's a welcome sight and the best interior decorating she's seen in some time. The Hunter shrugs and dumps her unceremoniously on the bed before sitting on it heavily. She's about to make a biting retort when she sees the fresh blood her pink jacket.

It wasn't _her _blood…

"Ouch!" She winces, spotting the growing red stain on the dark hoodie. There's a hole on the right side, the size of a bullet. "I didn't shoot you back then, did I?" She asks incredulously. The Hunter shrugs again and she notes that she isn't going to get much out of the Infected. "I guess you did ask for it. But a point blank .308 round isn't something to be trifled with. Is there a first aid kit anywhere around here? Wait, I see it." An emergency medical kit was lying on the bathroom floor, half the supplies scattered on the linoleum. She gathered the items quickly and limps back to the bed with new determination. "I never thought I'd be saying this to a guy like you, but take off your shirt."

It was the Hunter's turn to stare at her as if she'd told him to step outside, don a dress, and do the mamba in front of a witch. The expression interpreted from only the lower half of his face was so clear and pathetic that she chose to compromise.

"As you are the one who jumped me, asked me for a favor, before taking me up to the tenth story of a building with no way down, I think you owe me some compliance. Lift your shirt, okay?"

A pause. The Hunter gritted his teeth and begrudgingly submitted. He looks away, and she has the vague feeling he was ashamed. She braces herself.

She's expecting tumors and boils underneath the shirt and is met with pale gray skin. She releases a breath, surprised by what she sees. It's a sickly color, but it's the only trait that discerns him as an Infected. He even has a nice set of abs and she finds herself musing briefly about what he looks like without the hoodie.

The thought passes and she mentally slaps herself, forcing all concentration on tending to the wound. It's trickling blood all over the bed sheets so she begins cleaning up the mess. She's mastered the art of treating injuries and has it down to a science, methodical in her steps until all she need do is disinfect and bandage the wound.

"It'll sting, but I need to disinfect it. I'm not sure if Infected _can_, well, have dirty wounds become infected, but might as well take precautions, right?" She grins at the Hunter who hasn't moved an inch since she told him to lift his shirt. When she applies the liquid to his skin, he hisses and grips the mattress with his free hand hard enough to tear right through it. "Stings, doesn't it?" She laughs quietly, and the Hunter frowns in response. He's practically pouting and her laughter increases a level. They fall into a companionable silence as she bandages his waist, white cloth only a few degrees lighter than his skin.

She sighs, the task feels almost therapeutic."There, we're done." She whispers, feeling motherly; she hasn't had a mom kiss her bruises and scrapes better in years (and now she doesn't even have a mom) and doing so for someone else made her feel at peace. She takes the chance to peek at the Hunter.

It was weird; sometimes he seemed to be a normal human being, while at other times he was almost animalistic. She supposes that's what the Infection entailed, but it was almost... sad to think about? She shakes her head and packs up all the leftover medical supplies. It wasn't her problem to consider.

"Thank you." He returns the smile - albeit ruefully – she doesn't notice she has on her lips.

"Not a problem." She replies in hushed tones and it's as if they're sharing a secret. They sit together quietly and for the time being they're content to say not another word.

And then...

She mumbles, embarrassed. "I have to go to the bathroom."


End file.
